


the fear of falling apart

by xxpaynoxx



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Comfort Sex, Copa América 2015, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 19:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7119385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxpaynoxx/pseuds/xxpaynoxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neymar gets sent off after Brazil are knocked out against Colombia, and he runs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fear of falling apart

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first James Rodríguez/Neymar fic I have ever written, so I apologize if James is too OOC. But, I couldn't NOT write about these two; they're just too perfect ~~and they're both twinks which makes it easy~~.

**June 17th, 2015**  
**3:08 AM**

That red card. That  _stupid_ red card.

When Neymar had gotten sent off, and he went back to the hotel, he didn’t want to face his teammates, so he runs.

He calls James when he's finally sitting down on a really shitty bench, the cold metal seeping into his muscles through his thin sweatpants in the middle of fucking nowhere, in the dark with only the moon to witness his breakdown of the decade. James had picked up within the first ring, and they’d spoken for a long time before he asks him to come pick him up.

James was, of course, a bit startled, but he had agreed and hung up.

An hour later, Neymar heard the grind of gravel under tires behind him as he watched the sun rise up over the horizon, turning the ocean a blinding mixture of yellow and pink and purple. Shoes crunch over gravel, and his heart starts to beat a little too quickly all of a sudden.

He’s wondering why he even _called_ James in the first place when the Colombian striker appears in front of him, sending him a warm, white smile.

Neymar can’t seem to replicate the gesture, and he can tell James was sufficiently prepared for it since he knelt in front of him and cupped his face, softly rubbing the pads of his thumbs across his cheekbones.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he whispers, and Neymar fervently shakes his head.

There’s not much talking after that, after James crawls onto the bench and draws Neymar into his lap, brushing his fingers through his hair and letting him relax into his grip.

Eventually, James’s hands make their way down to his waist, and Neymar lets out an _incredibly pathetic_ squeak as the Colombian striker’s arms scoop him up as he stands and makes his way to the car.

Neymar clutches his shirt, and James looks down in surprise, stopping short.

“P-Please, I’m not…I’m not ready to go back yet.”

James smiles. “You’re coming with me, babe,” he whispers, and for some reason Neymar relaxes into his grip as he places him in the back of the black car, pulling his Colombian jacket over Neymar’s thin, shaking body.

(Neymar knows he looks like a fool, but who was he to refuse a warm jacket?)

The ride back to the hotel is long, with James humming along to some Spanish music played low on the speakers and drumming his thumbs on the leather steering wheel. Neymar eventually drifts off, lulled to sleep by the soft bass from the song and the smooth movement of the car, but awakens abruptly when the car stops.

He doesn’t move until the door opens, and James hauls him out and shuts the door behind him. There are a few officials standing outside with the Colombian flag on their black coats, but none of them say a word or bat an eyelid as James leads him into the hotel.

They make it back to the room without anyone recognizing them (incredible, in Neymar’s opinion, since the two of them were practically the poster boys for their respective countries) and James opens the door, shoving Neymar inside before shutting it quietly behind him.

It’s silent and a little awkward for a few seconds, before Neymar breaks it. His voice is raspy and high-pitched, and he winces.

“Why did you come for me?”

James doesn’t respond at first, looking down at his shoes and scratching the back of his head before looking back up and meeting Neymar’s gaze dead-on.

“I just, I know how that feels, how it feels to think that you let your country down because you let your emotions get the better of you. I know how it feels to not want to see your teammates after a loss that you could have prevented if you’d just run a little faster, stretched a little more, tried a little harder.”

Neymar blinks, and suddenly James is nose to nose with him.

He had never really looked at the striker, like properly looked at him before, but there was no denying that James was unconditionally _beautiful_.

His cinnamon brown eyes. His spiky black hair. His blinding white smile. His cute dimples. His tattoos.

James’ hand comes up to cup his face, and when he kisses him, Neymar is gone.

They’re very different in how they kiss; James is soft, sweet, loving, while Neymar is all teeth and tongue and feral. Sort of like how they play, now that Neymar thinks about it.

James’ lips are soft, like kissing a cloud, and Neymar moans when he nips at his lip, pressing his tongue inside of his mouth and running over his teeth.

The lack of oxygen gets to them both, and James begins to pull away, but Neymar uses his hand on the back of James' neck to keep him close, so close that their noses are still touching.

“Take care of me,” Neymar whispers, and James grins against his lips.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he mumbles, and connects their lips again as he shoves the jacket off of Neymar shoulders and picks him up by his thighs, Neymar instinctively wrapping his legs around James’ waist as he presses the Brazilian forward’s back against the patterned hotel wall.

There’s not much talking after that, just James’ hands running over every part of Neymar like he’s trying to memorize every dip and flaw in his skin, and Neymar’s moans shaking in both of their ears.

* * *

Neymar wakes up first the next day, the busy sounds of Santiago humming through their window along with the irritable ray of sunshine streaming in through the break between the thick, tacky gold curtains. The numbers _08:25_ glare red into his eyes, and he rubs them, trying to fully wake up.

James is still wrapped around him, both pale arms securely tightened around his waist and his face smushed into his neck, breathing softly against his skin, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he dreams. In all honestly, Neymar doesn’t want to move; he wants to stay in bed with James all day, but he knows Dani has probably already ruined himself with worry.

He snatches his phone from the nightstand, turning it on, and promptly blinks in confusion at all of the notifications.

There’s ESPN on there (he avoids those, simply clearing them; he’ll go back another time, when his head is clear, to reread them), and then loads of text messages.

Dani pops up first, with a lot of _Where are you???_ which cut off around three that morning. Rafinha only sends a short text hoping that he’s safe (Neymar has a hunch Rafinha and James had been in contact that previous night concerning him).

Then there’s Leo.

Neymar completely forgot about Leo, and he stiffens as he reads his text. It’s not terribly long, but it nearly drives him to tears as he catches the words _blow off some steam_ and _i’m always here for you_ and _let me know if you’re okay_ and _i can pick you up_.

Each one drives a stake into Neymar’s heart.

He passed up Leo, his idol, his best friend, for _James_.

But there’s no regret in Neymar, at least not yet. There’s no remorse for sleeping with James or letting James make him feel better. With Leo, there would’ve been a long talk to get his feelings out and then a slow makeout session, a shower and then bed.

Neymar didn’t need that. He _needed_ James, needed someone who would let him blow off the anger he’d pent up for over six hours sitting on that godforsaken bench. He needed someone who was going to understand the anger, the feeling of letting your country down when they needed you the most.

(Granted, that part would’ve been best saved for Leo, but James let him blow off the steam.)

There’s a shuffle behind him, and Neymar quickly locks his phone as James tightens his grip around his middle, pressing a soft, chaste kiss onto his cheek. “Morning,” he whispers, and Neymar smiles.

“Morning,” he replies back and James finally releases his midriff to stretch, his arm muscles rippling as he lets out a contented sigh when his joints crack.

James rolls over onto his side again, propping his head on his hand and tracing Neymar’s cheekbone with the side of his index finger, a soft smile on his face.

Neymar’s eyes slide shut at the gesture, and he revels in the soft movement of James’ finger dancing across his face until his phone buzzes again.

They both jump, and James slowly retracts his hand as Neymar rolls over and slides to the end of the bed, running his hand through his hair as he sees a new text from Dani.

_**Remember, we have training at noon. Don’t be late, asshole. And you’ll have to tell me where you were last night and why I found a picture of you in a Colombian jacket. -Dani xx** _

Neymar gulps, shooting a look at James, who looks calm and collected, hands behind his head as he smiles. “Teammates?” he asks, and Neymar nods, standing up and shoving his boxers on, quickly finding his other articles of clothing.

He’s fumbling with the buttons on his pre-match top when James’ hand reaches out and stops his hand. Neymar blinks, looking up as his hands drop to his sides, and James quickly buttons them, his brow slightly furrowed as he concentrates.

Again, it’s just them, standing in the middle of James’ hotel room.

“Feel better?” James asks, tilting Neymar’s face up to meet his own, and Neymar nods.

“I’ll be there for you if you ever want me again, okay?”

Neymar nods again, and with that, James presses one last kiss to Neymar’s lips. It’s sweet, chaste even, and makes Neymar want to stay, but he can’t. They both know that, and James lets him walk away, releasing his shoulders.

Neymar gets to the door and looks back, and James is just watching him leave. He’s not crying or emotional, or anything that Neymar was honestly expecting him to be.

He’s calm, like they just did a business agreement instead of fucking like animals hours beforehand.

“James,” he whispers, and the Colombian striker looks up as Neymar’s voice echoes in the quiet room.

“Thank you.”

And then he leaves, with the imprint of James’ smile on his eyelids

The best part about it is, he truly is.

He’ll probably take a while to get over that red card, to get over all of the emotions he’d sent the referee’s way as well as towards his teammates when he’d stormed off into the tunnel.

But knowing that James was going to be there for him made him feel a little bit warmer.


End file.
